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Forest Firea.
Forest fires in Michigan, Wiscon
sin and Minnesota occur, and are the
results mostly of carelessness on the
part of explorers, or timber hunters,
haymakers, and others having either
business or pleasure in the woods, who
leave their camp-fires burning, when
they have cooked a meal or spent the
night. This is generally in the
months of July and August, when
the pine haves and branches from
the last wit ter’s cutting are dry and
like tinder, liable to burn from the
dropping of a match or a stroke of
lightning. There is no necessity for
this criminal negligence. Proper laws
and their enforcement a few times
will set the careless ones to thinking,
and they will put out their camp-fires
and be careful where they drop a
match. It may seem hard to detect
the offender, but it is not. Most men
can be traced even in the pineries,
and if fires result from their acts they
should be punished by imprisonment
or fines.
Each state should enact special laws
on this subject, then circulate full in
formation aDd cautions, so that igno
rance cannot be pleaded.
The practice of lumbermen cutting
pine in the winter is this : A tree is
felled, the branches are lopped of! and
lie scattered over the ground; the
summer following these become very
dry and are like powder. A match
thrown away, an emptied pipe—aDy
thing with even a spark of fire at
tached, will start the burning. Being
scattered so evenly over the ground,
fire spreads and gathers force, and
does not stop at the end of the old
choppings, but runs on into the green
forest; so where perhaps eighty acres
were cut, double that or more may be
burned or killed.
A remedy for this would be a la’#
requiring the lumbermen to employ
an extra man in the woods, and care
fully pile these green pine branches
and refuse in open spaces, where they
may be burned at the right time, or
should they take fire by accident, the
fire may not spread.
The txtra expense is very little, and
a large proportion of forest fires can
be traced to these scattered dry pine
leaves, ready to catch.
After the first season, there is but
little danger of fires in these old chop
pings, as the pine leaves drop off and
green hard woods, maples, poplars,
etc., spring up and the danger is over
in a great measure.
We have not been able to trace any
forest fires to So-called “Indian”
work. The Indian builds a very
small fire and hovers over it for
warmth. He says, “White man build
heap big fire and no can come near
him.”
Th^Aian always caret}
tot
[ich
fesota differ in
Ties from the Eastern
most of the forests were
i; fewer small streams are
round ; rain-fall is less ; more danger
from forest fires. Witness the horri
ble scenes of Peshtigo and vicinity in
eastern Wisconsin, in 1871, and later
In eastern Michigan, occurring on
this dry sandy soil.
There are large areas of a still virgin
forest, aside from the small amount
of pine therein, or which has been
cut and removed in these three states
that can be saved. The practice has
been, until within a year or two, by
lumbermen, to cut the pine timber,
and then abandon the land to the
country. There would be an average
of five pine trees to an acre cut and
removed. The remainder of the tim
ber would be small pine, cedar, tarna-
rac, spruce, and the varieties of hard
woods, and unless the fire had run
through, one would hardly notice that
the land had been out over.
Now, however, owners are paying
up taxes and carrying these cut lands.
On this remaining forest, covering
Borne 60,000,000 acres, as before stated,
there is some white pine, perhaps 7o,-
000,000,0) 0 feet, that will be cut in the
next ten years. After this is gone,
and which at present seems to be the
only timber of any commercial value,
there will be left the same original
forest acres, full of all kinds of hard
woods, the cedars, tamarao and
spruces, and the young white pines,
all of which will become valuable, so
that the forest that is left has really
more value iu its variety of useful
trees that are now, or soon will be, in
Remand for the vast prairie oountry
id west of ub.
There should be foresters appointed
and paid good salaries; men of intelli
gence and knowledge, and of integ
rity and honesty of purpose; their
duties being to inform themselves of
every part of their district, its wants
and capabilities; to collect informa
tion ; go among the people ; to settle
in the wooded parts thereof; to in
struct them in the use and care of tim
ber, and how to save and utilize it;
to have meetings in the country
school-houses ; to teach people who do
not realize the value of our forests how
to care for them, etc. Not one person
in ten has any idea of the necessity of
care as to forest-fires, and it all comes
from iguorance. Foresters should col
lect and distribute information, and
advise as to the manner of cutting
timber. Probably as much timber, or
as many trees in number, are destroy
ed each year through ignorance and
carelessness in cutting the pine timber
for sawlogs, as there is that are cut
and really used or taken to market.
As a matter of saving to the state at
large, the simple effects of an intelli
gent forester, to educate the country
peoplp, by going among them, and
giving them information, would pay
in the end a thousand salaries, to wit:
It is not generally known that even a
branch brokeD from a hemlock tree
kills it. The pine is also a sensitive
tree; a broken limb or a slight burn
on one side brings on decay; hence
care should be taken in cutting.
Again, fires should not be allowed to
run, fc r no pine comes up again on
burned land.
Lumbermen sending their men into
the woods, exploring or haymaking,
should charge them to take extra care
of camp-fires.
The northern part of Minnesota and
Wisconsin, and the upper pines of
Michigan, fifty to seventy-five million
acres of laud, is well calculated fora
forest reserve or park, from which all
kinds of timber that grow in the mid
dle and Northern stairs may be judi
ciously taken, and still the main forest
remain intact, if it is intelligently and
practically managed. The prairie
states do not now perhaps so much
feel the need of having such a forest
to draw from, but they very soon will.
Vast amounts of timber for agricul
tural implements, railroad ties, tele
graph poles, fence posts, etc., sra
wanted each yerr. The demands in
crease as the pra'ries settle up. Tnis
f< rest is tlie only one left. A thousand
things could be said on this subject,
but what is wanted is prompt action
on the part of those in authority, good
laws made and executed, people edu
cated up to the point; and this can be
done by the right mau < r men in each
district of said forest, meeting the peo
ple at their town-houses, school-houses
and villages, and telling them what
jjr must do, showing them how to
t, and making the common people
undt rdaud that fires must be kept
down, and the originators punished.—
Ex.
Worlds With Double Suns.
It has now been ascertained that
many planets in the universe are il
luminated by two suns. While as
tronomers are o’ rlaln of the faot, they
are puzzled to account for the orb ti of
these planets, which must describe
iiregular cour es in their revolutions.
The suns sre often very different in
the'r appearance, often one is yellow
and the oth< r purple. It follows that
sunrises and sunsitj on such planers
must be fsr mote beautiful than here
on this earth. The blending of differ
ent solar rays must give rise to many
varied phenomena of the natural
forces not known t > us. In such solar
systems light, heat and electricity
must assume new phases. As y t we
are ignorant of some of the deeper
rnyet ries of the starry heavens, but
it is wonderful how much man has
found out about the distant stars.
Clips.
A man’s heart is in hlB pericardium
when he is engaged ; but after he has
been married about five years it gets
around into his pocket bo* k.
The grasshopper has 120 times the
kicking power of a man, taking size
into acoount. What a failure man is,
when you come to think it, over.
There are any amount of peoplo^in
this country who think that art closed
Ub books and retired from business
witti the making « f their last pair of
pants.
The man who worships the fortune
he has made is no more intelligent
than the heathen who prays to the lit
tle wooden god he has whittled into
shape. ^
The Second Love.
“Isn’t she lovely ?”
Tom Charlesworth spoke out enthu
siastically with a vivid fl »sh of his
dark gray eye and a singular softness
to his voice. His was a nature not
often stirred but very deep and earn
est; and Fernand Wallace looked into
his face and wondered with a half
smile how it would seem to feel things
below the mere surface depth.
He was very handsome, this Fer
nand Wallace, with soft, treacherous
eyes, features like the Apollo Bolvidere
and a lute sweet voice; and Tom
Charlesworth, who read every one
according to the keynote of his own
ntble nature, lovei him as if they had
been brothers.
“She is well enough. Nose just a
trifle too short and the lips too full,
but orherwise what the world calls
beautiful. Bo you are hard hit my
boy, eh ?” said Wallace debonairely.
“I love her dearly, and God willing
I will be a good husbaud to her, and
you had better remain to be my best
man. It is hardly worthwhile to re
turn to Exeter for three weeks,” said
Tom,iu the quiet unimpassioned voice
that meant so much.
“Well, perhaps you are right, old
fellow,” said Fernand Wallace, but
any one a trifle more observant than
Tom would have noticed that the
handsome, restless eyes evaded his
gaze with strange subtlety.
“Do you hear, Elise ? Fernand will
stay to the wedding. I knew we
should persuade him!” said Charles
worth exultantly.
Elsie Mordaunt looked suddenly up
from the fancy work with which she
was idling mechanically, and some
thing wild and piteous in her gaze at
tracted even Tom Charlesworth’s
attention.
“Elise, darling, are you ill?”
He was at her side in an instant
with both hands in his.
Elsie laughed a little bj ate ically.
She was a dark-eyed, brilliant little
brunt tte, with blue-black silky hair
growing low on her forehead, and a
small, sensitive mouth like a crimson
woodberry.
“No! What nonsense, Tom. I am
well enough. Do not get any absurd
notions in your head.
The night before the wedding was
frosty and star sprinkled, with a deli
cious air full of the aroma of withered
ferns and fallen leaves; and Tom
Charlesworth strode over the fields
whistling as he went, his heart brim
ming with the strange sweet sense of
bliss that most lovers have felt once in
a lifetime.
The little room where Elise was
wont to sit of an evening was dark,
and tl^e window looking ou a border
of gay colored dahlias was opened.
Tom leaned his elbow on the casement
and looked in.
But there was no answer. Elise was
not there.
He went round to the orthodox en
trance feeling a little disappointed, he
scarcely knew why. Mrs. Mordaunt
met him in the hall with a white,
scared face.
“Oh! Mr. Charlesworth, we were
j*st going to send for you !” she cried.
“To send for me? What has hap
pened? Is—is Elise ill!” Tom felt
himself blanched to the very roots of
his hair.
Mrs. Mordaunt’s lips trembled but
gave forth no sound, as she placed in
Charlesworth's hands a note stained
with her own tears—a brief note writ
ten by Elise:
“Do not blame me, mamma, nor
let him blame me because I could not
help loving Fernand the best. Tell
him not to feel bad ; for indeed—in
deed I was not worthy of his love, and
he will be happier without me—poor
Tom!”
And it was signed by one word,
“Elise.”
Charlesworth,
the uote, and
into the starry]
No eyes but tj
should witness]
his heart.
“Mother
sir, if— if y
and that fa
A buit-i
voioe as
head an
gether i
tlie sno
uietly gave her back
parting, walked forth
silence of the night.
Sse of the All Seeing
he Becret anguish of
uglit you would come,
knew how poor she was
er was dead and—”
t,ear8 checked the child’s
stood with a drooping
amis tightly clasped to*
r. Charlesworth’s library,
melting on her garments,
and the crimson touch of the cold
winter air glowing feverishly on her
cheek.
“But, my child, you have not yet
toid me who your mother Is nor who
you are,” and he looked at her with a
puzzlfiiLface,
“I am Margaret and mamma is
called Elise Wallace.”
Mr. Charlesworth rose and took the
little child’s hand In his.
“ Come, take me to your home,
child,” was all that he said.
It was Elise—pale, sallow and wan,
the ghost of her former self, her voice
interrupted by a hacking cough and
her hands transparent and ferverlsh—
yet, Elise still.
“ You have forgiven me, Tom ? Oh!
Tom I could not have died without
your words of pardon !”
“ I forgave you freely long ago,
Elise.”
“ I have expiated my folly on the
most bitter altar of repentance. Oh!
Tom, he was a fiend in human shape
—but now,” she added shudderingly.
Bhe mutely motioned toward the
scantily furnished room, the dying
fire in the grate and the child who
stood shivering in her rags at the foot
of the bed.
“ It is not for myself. Heaven
knows I have not long to suffer, and I
am well inured to it, but my poor little
Margaret, what is to become of her?”
she faltered.
“ Shall I take her, Elise?”
“ For your own ?”
“ For my own. I have neither wife
nor child, and for the sake of what
you once were to me I will take the
child and be kind to her.”
Elise drew a long sigh of ineffable
relief, as her fevered fingers closed on
Charlesworth’s hand.
“ I can die in peace now !”
When the sods had been laid on
poor Elise’s coffin Margaret came to
Mr. Charlesworth’s luxurious home,
a shy, timid, shrinking child, with
big, hare-lise eyes, brown skin and a
nervous way of staring when one
spoke to her.
“ Margaret, what shall I do with
you ?” said he, stroking the jetty hair.
“I should like to go to school and
be like other girls. Papa always spent
all the money and mamma could
never send me.”
“ Well, that is a very sensible idea
of yours, do you know, little girl ? To
school you shall go,” said Mr. Charles
worth.
Three years after ward Margaret came
back royally beautiful a9 Cleopatra.
Mr. Charlesworth had sent a little
girl to school, and to his surprise a
radiant butterfly floated into his pres
ence.
“ My little girl, how lovely you are,”
he said, fairly confounded and taken
by surprise.
“Ami? I am so giad!” she said.
“ Little vanity J”
“No ! I do not think it is altogether
vanity ; but you know I wanted you to
love me,” said Margaret.
“You are a foolish child and you
have no idea what you are saying,”
said Mr. Charlesworth a little sharply.
Margaret wondered wh^, she had
said to annoy her guardian but she let
the matter drop; and the weeks and
months went by, and the young girl
became the very light and sunshine of
Tom’s eyes.
“Margaret I have found a husband
for you. What do you say ?” said Mr.
Chailesworth one evening.
. “That I will take him if he is the
right one !” laughed the girl.
Tom felt a keen, strange pang at his
heart but kept up a brave counte
nance.
“Well, it is Harry Montague!” he
said, striving to speak cheerfully.
“Tell him no!”
“You do not like him?”
“No, Mr. Charlesworth.”
“But he is young and handsome.”
“And the man I love is not young
and particularly handsome.”
“Are you in love, Margaret?”
“Yes, and so are you, Mr. Charles
worth,” Bhe said a little saucily.
He winced.
“Margaret, you have no right to
look into the sanctuary of my heart.”
She caftne up to him and putting
both hands on his shoulder gazed with
half smiling, half tearful eyes into his
“Margaret, are you to be my wife?”
“If you will have me.”
And thus Fernand Wallace’s child
gave back to Mr. Charlesworth the
gift of love which her father’s hand
had so ruthlessly plucked from his
grasp twenty years before.
“Mr. Charlesworth, but suppose I
look into my heart and see yours en
throned and enahadowed there?”
“What do you mean, Margaret?’ ’
“Ah! you are not so accomplished
a dissembler as you might suppose. I
have discovered that you love me but
you are too modest to fancy until I tell
you so that—”
“That what, Margaret?”
Pale and eager he listened for an
answer.
“That I love you! Oh ! Mr. Charles
worth my mother’s treachery blighted
your youth ; let my love and affection
atone in the golden prime of your
dttyfr* ! n
Mr. Charlesworth felt like one In a
dream.
A German Estimate of Dai win.
When, seven months ago, the sad In
telligence reached us by telegraph from
England that on April 19 Charles
Darwin had concluded his life of rich
activity, there thrilled with rare una
nimity through the whole scientific
world the feeling of an irreparable
loss. Not only did the innumerable
adherents and scholars of the great
naturalist lament the decease of the
head master who had guided them,
but even the most esteemed of his op
ponents had to confess that one of the
most significant and influential spirits
of the century had departed. This
universal sentiment found its most
eloquent expression iu the fact that
immediately after his death the Eng
lish newspapers of all parties, and pre
eminently his Conservative opponents,
demanded that the burial-place of the
deceased should be in the Valhalla of
Great Britaiu, the national Temple of
Fame, Westminster Abbey ; and there,
in point of fact, he found his last rest
ing place by the side of the kindred-
minded Newton. In no country of
the world, however, Eagland not ex
cepted, has the reforming doctrine of
Darwin met with so mueh living in
terest or evoked such a storm of writ
ings, for and against, as in Germany.
It is therefore only a debt of honor we
pay if at this year’s assembly of Ger
man naturalists and physicians we
gratefully call to remembrance the
mighty genius who has departed, and
bring home to our minds tbe loftiness
of the theory of Nature to which he
has elevated us. And what place
in the world could be more appropriate
for rendering this service of thanks
than Eisenach, with its Wartburg,
this stronghold of free inquiry and
free opinion ? As in this sacred spot
360 years ago Martin Luther, by his
reform of the Church in its head and
members, introduced a new era in the
history of civilization, so In our days
has Charles Darwin, by his reform of
the doctrine of development, con
strained the whole perception, thought
and volition of mankind into new and
higher courses. It is true that person-
ally, both in his character and influ
ence, Darwin has more affinity to the
m< ek and mild Melancthon than to
the powerful and inspired Luther. In
th j scope and importance, however, of
their great work of reformation the
two cases were entirely parallel, and
in both the success marks a new epoch
in the development of the human
mind. Consider, first, the irrefragable
fact of the unexampled success which
Darwin’s reform of science has achiev
ed in the short space of twenty-three
years! for never before since the be
ginning of human science has any
new theory penetrated so deeply to
the foundation of the whole domain of
knowledge or so deeply affected the
most cherished personal convictions
of individual students; never before
has a new theory called forth such
vehement opposition and so completely
overcome it in such short time. The
depicture of the astounding revolution
which Darwin has accomplished in
the minds of men in tbeir entire view
of Nature and conception of the world
will form an interesting chapter in
tbe futuie history of the doctrine of
development.—Professor Hoecktl..
Chinese Traditions.
The Chinese preserve a tradition
that on a certain night centuries ago
one of the time souls of a runowned
Mongolian visited the moon and found
the inhabitants diverting themselves
with theatrical performances. Upon
his return to earth he established the
teirestrial theatre, an event which is
still celebrated on September 25th,
the fifteenth day of the Chinese eightl
moi th, with various singular cerer
mes called “Congratulating
moon.” On the appointed night
Chinatown of Ban Francisco was u
blaze of cheap glory. Shops anl
lodging-houses were illumined,
(’ngon flag floated everywhere, lan
terns bung from windows and balco
nies, and a multitude of many colored
candleH shed light and grease around.
Numberless sheets of mock paper
money were burned, firecrackers were
surreptitiously set off wherever a
pollcempi was not in sight and the
air was vocal with the Jabbering
thousand glib tongues.